Hair Trigger
by InitialLuv
Summary: The reason for McCormick's injury isn't as obvious as it seems.


_**Author's Note:**_ This is a mostly humorous fic, with a little insight. It concerns a physical feature of McCormick's that I admit I truly love (and I'm sure I'm not the only one).

 **-ck**

 _Disclaimer: I do not own these beloved characters, and I am writing for fun and feedback,_ _ **not**_ _for profit._

* * *

 _ **HAIR TRIGGER  
**_ **by InitialLuv** _ **  
**_

"All I'm sayin'" Judge Hardcastle opined sagely, "is that if you'd cut that mop of yours, you'd save yourself a lot of trouble."

A bleary eye peered up from underneath the aforementioned "mop." "I don't remember asking you."

Hardcastle grunted. "'Course you wouldn't. Because that would mean you value what I say."

Mark McCormick shifted on the couch, sitting up slowly. He re-positioned the ice pack onto the sorest part of his head, then leaned back, trapping the ice pack between his head and the back of the couch.

"I value what you say, Judge. I value what you say about John Wayne, and southern cooking, and how the world worked in the days before electricity – "

"Fine. Forget I said anything." The judge got up from the chair near the couch, and moved to sit behind his desk. He glowered at the top of the desk, sending dirty looks at anything that sat there, including the phone, the Fraser bronze, and the base of the alarm system.

McCormick sighed, closing his eyes briefly. Since he still felt slightly woozy when standing upright, he stayed on the couch as he addressed the judge.

"I'm sorry, okay? I didn't mean to tick you off. But my head is killing me."

The judge grunted again, although this time it was somewhat softer. He ran his fingers along the cloth that sat underneath his shotgun.

"I know you don't feel good. You think I liked seein' you get beat to a pulp?"

" – I wouldn't say I got beat to a _pulp_ – "

Hardcastle kept talking, raising his voice to be heard over McCormick's objection. "That's why I brought up cutting your hair. It's a . . . liability."

After yesterday's events with the judge's "bad guy of the week," which resulted in not only an escape of said bad guy but also a night in the hospital for Mark, the younger man thought he'd be far from laughing. But the comment about his long curls being a _liability_. . . It was just too damn funny. The ice pack slipped down behind his back as he leaned forward, snorting back laughter. Even when his head began to ache more, McCormick couldn't stop the chuckles.

Hardcastle sent an infuriated glare at the amused man. "Oh, good. Glad to see you didn't injure your warped sense of humor."

McCormick gasped for breath, fighting to control himself. "Judge, just think about what you said. Think how ridiculous that is."

The judge stared down at the desktop again. He was quiet for a few moments, and then his mouth quirked up at the edge. "Yeah, you're right," he acquiesced. "But if your hair was short – or just not so _long_ – the guy wouldn't have been able to grab onto it so easily." The small smile faded as Hardcastle recalled yesterday's foot chase.

Hardcastle and McCormick had ended up chasing Lyle Whitbeck into the back alleys of a warehousing district. As usual, Mark had been in the lead, and he'd been only a few steps behind the drug dealer when both men had disappeared around the corner of a building. By the time Milt had caught up, he'd turned the corner to see that in the short time the two crime fighters had been separated, McCormick had been overcome in a tussle with the criminal. Whitbeck, high on adrenaline and another substance not produced by the human body, had had his hands grasped tightly in McCormick's curls, and had been repeatedly slamming the young man's head on the ground. Unwilling to fire at Whitbeck when he was draped over the kid, Milt had shot a bullet into a nearby pile of pallets at an abandoned loading dock. The explosive sound of the .45, followed by Hardcastle's yell of "Hands off him, Whitbeck!" had caused the criminal to drop McCormick's head, jump to his feet, and dart down the alleyway. The judge hadn't given any thought to pursuit – his only concern at that point had been the young man lying on the ground, rocking back and forth in pain with his arms wrapped around his head. Now, a concussion, ten stitches, and an overnight hospital stay later, the two men sat in the den looking across the room at each other.

Mark's laughing had wound down. He reached a hand around to snag the fallen ice pack, then tossed it to the side. The ice had pretty much melted, anyway. He stood up slowly, using the arm of the couch to steady himself, and then walked just as slowly to Hardcastle's desk, where he lowered himself into the leather chair on Milt's left. Hardcastle watched him with a quiet but unwavering gaze, and didn't look away until he was confident McCormick was seated safely and comfortably.

"Judge, do you really think the guy wouldn't have been able to hurt me if I'd had a buzz cut?"

Milt glanced at the kid, grumbled something intelligible.

"What? What'd you say?"

"I _said_ ," Hardcastle cleared his throat, "maybe."

Mark smiled softly. "Okay. Let's say I did have a buzz cut. I'd still have ears. He could've done just as much damage grabbing onto those. Maybe more. I mean, hair grows back." The judge snorted lightly but didn't comment, so Mark went on. "If I did anything wrong, it wasn't having my hair too long – it was outrunning my back-up. The guy was high as a kite, and damn strong. There was no way I could've beaten him on my own."

Milt had been angry at himself for falling behind, and not being able to prevent Whitbeck from overpowering the ex-con. His guilt had been relieved somewhat by the fact that the junkie hadn't had a weapon on him – that could have gone south _fast_. But now, if Hardcastle understood what was the kid was trying to say. . . It almost seemed Mark was alleging that Hardcastle wasn't exactly to blame for their separation. _What's this about?_

"So why'd you do it? Why'd you put so much space between you and me?"

McCormick shrugged, lowering his eyes. "Uh, well. . . I guess I was thinking I could take Whitbeck down. I was wrong, I know that now." His hand traveled to the back of his head, to gingerly touch the bandage over the fresh stitches. "I don't know. I got it in my head that maybe we could stop the guy without you shooting him."

"Kiddo, you gotta realize that sometimes the bad guys are gonna get hurt." Hardcastle shook his head, feeling a mix of affection and exasperation. "If they make choices, dangerous choices that can put some innocent person's life in danger, sometimes the only way you can protect that person is to put the bad guy out of commission."

"Okay, I understand you want to stop Whitbeck because he's the mastermind behind the kids dealing drugs at the schools and at the rec center. You want to protect the innocent kids and get the kids that are dealing out of danger. I get that, believe me. It's important to me, too – maybe more important. But you shouldn't have to protect me, and I'm sorry I put you in that position." McCormick paused, then elaborated. "You shouldn't have to shoot a guy because I'm too dumb to realize I can't take down a coked-up hood on my own."

"Well I didn't shoot him, did I?"

"No. . ." Mark said, "but that's just because you didn't have the shot."

There was a short silence, then Milt sighed wearily. "And you made sure of that, didn't you?" It was more of a statement than a question. _This kid. This kid will never stop surprising me._ Hardcastle rubbed his temples. "Now _I'm_ getting a headache."

McCormick smiled endearingly at the older man. "I'll tell you what, Judge. You can have one of my pain pills. But you gotta ask nice, okay?" He tried to adapt a serious look. "And no more cracks about my hair. I mean it. No more calling me Samson or Jim Morrison or any of that."

Hardcastle nodded grudgingly. "All right. I'll stop bugging you about your hair." He rose from his desk chair, coming around to stand in front of McCormick. He regarded the young man thoughtfully.

"You know, though, if you wore hats more, I might not notice how long it is."

McCormick threw his hands up. "Like talking to a brick wall." He pushed himself up from his chair, and headed out of the den. Hardcastle was right on his heels. The judge acted as if he'd never heard the younger man's words, and he chattered on as he followed Mark down the hallway.

"I got a lot of baseball caps, McCormick. More than I can wear. I'll loan you some. And I know you've got that floppy bucket hat you like, and that Springsteen cap, and. . ."

 _ **END**_


End file.
